Dawn Comes Early (43 page)

Exasperated, Bessie threw up her hands. Didn't her sister know anything? “Of course it is. Good-bye is, well, good-bye.” Okay, so maybe she
was
grasping at straws, but she didn't have a whole lot to work with. “If she didn't say good-bye, that means it's not final.”

Luke grimaced as if in pain. “It felt final to me. I told her how I felt and she still left.”

She gave him her best motherly look. “That's because you don't know how women think. Just because a man says he loves her doesn't mean she believes him.”

“I believed it when Murphy told me he loved me,” Lula-Belle said.

Bessie scoffed. “You believed
me
when I told you the moon was made of green cheese.”

She turned back to her nephew and heaved a sigh. If love and marriage were left to the male population, civilization would have ended with Adam and Eve. “So how did you tell her that you loved her?”

He frowned. “How did I tell her? I just blurted it right out.”

Bessie felt a sinking feeling inside. “No, no, no. That would never do. Women want to be courted.”

“I did court her. I told her I had a fancy for her. Then I told her I had a hankering for her. Then I zeroed in for the kill and told her I loved her. If that's not courtin' I don't know what is.”

Bessie threw up her arms in exasperation. “No wonder she left.”

Luke frowned. “You think I should have come right out and asked her to pair up with me?”

Bessie rolled her eyes. “No, no, no!” Where, oh where had she gone so wrong? “You only mention pairings if you plan on building an ark.”

The frown lines deepened between his eyebrows. “Are you sayin' I shoulda played my hand closer to the chest?”

Bessie rolled her eyes.
Men!
“What I'm trying to say is that a woman doesn't just want words, she wants proof. She wants to
see
that you love her with her own two eyes.”

Luke rubbed his chin. “It's kind of hard to prove anything when she's in Boston and I'm here.”

“Yes, that is a problem,” Bessie agreed. Now they were getting somewhere.

Lula-Belle sniffed. “That's why they have trains.”

Bessie glanced at her sister in surprise. Maybe she wasn't so dense after all.

“Lula-Belle's right.” Personally, she would never do anything so foolhardy as to travel on two thin metal rails. The sheer speed of a train terrified her. Nonetheless, she had no qualms about encouraging Luke to travel on one. She'd agree to let him go to the moon if she thought it would get him a wife.

“You must definitely go to Boston. No woman can resist a man willing to put life and limb on the line to chase after her.” Recalling how Sam had chased her halfway to Tucson—practically killing himself in the process—Bessie smiled and added, “Trust me, I speak from experience. And I'll tell you another thing . . .”

While she expressed her considerable thoughts on the subject, Luke didn't say a word. Arms folded, forehead creased, he stared at her in stone-faced silence and didn't move a muscle.

Bessie threw in every reason she could think of why Luke should go after the girl, but nothing she said seemed to penetrate his thick head. Stubborn, that's what he was. Just like Sam.

She paused for breath and that's when Luke finally spoke up.

“You think I should? You think I should go to Boston?”

Praise the Lord, Luke wasn't so pigheaded after all. “Absolutely,” Bessie said.

“But only if you truly love her,” Lula-Belle said.

“And are willing to show her how much,” Bessie added.

Where is she?

It was a question that had run through Luke's head since Kate left all those months ago. Now it was followed by yet another question:
How do I find her?

Traveling to Boston had taken seven days, three trains, and a whole lot of praying. It would have taken a day less had he not missed his connection in Chicago because of a snowstorm. As hard as it had been to travel to Boston, that was the least of it. Finding Kate in the desert after that terrible sandstorm had been a breeze compared to trying to find her in this ugly, crowded city. He didn't even know where to begin.

Boston confounded him with its narrow streets, tall buildings, and hordes of people. Where was everyone going? And why were they all in such a big hurry? Dodging traffic was worse than trying to outrun a cattle stampede. And cold. Never had he known such frigid weather. His teeth hadn't stopped chattering since he arrived.

He'd checked every hotel and boardinghouse he could find, but no one by the name of Kate Tenney was registered. He closed his eyes. Think.
Think
. Where would she be?

Walking around aimlessly, he found himself on the notorious Anne Street, which locals called the Black Sea. Hellhole would be a more accurate name. Any sort of vice could be purchased for a price. Brothels and taverns lined the street, reaching into a dark, dismal maze of alleyways. After one woman with a painted face and low-cut gown beckoned him from a doorway, he decided he needed a map.

He must have been half out of his mind to come to this strange city. It wasn't like him to act without careful planning. A blacksmith had to be prepared. Everything from a nail to farm equipment required a detailed plan. How could finding the woman he loved require any less?

He wasn't even certain it was possible to find someone in a place like this. Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier. What was he thinking? That she would be waiting for him at the train station?

He plumb better think of something fast. He couldn't keep running in circles. Where would someone like Kate Tenney spend her time? A bookstore. He pumped his fist. Of course. Why didn't he think of that before?

He found one two blocks away. The sign read Antiquarian, but newer books were displayed behind the dusty glass window. A riot of bells greeted him as he walked through the door. It smelled of old leather and dust. The proprietor looked up from behind a counter, spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose. The man's shoulder-length white hair and beard would be better suited to St. Nicholas's red attire than the frock coat he wore.

“May I help you?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Not sure why the man was whispering, Luke nonetheless followed his lead. “I'm looking for someone. Her name is Kate Tenney. She's a writer.”

The man stroked his beard. “The only Kate I know is Kate Chopin.” He picked up a volume. “I have a copy of her book
Bayou Folk
. It's her best book yet.”

Luke shook his head. “Her name is Tenney,” he said, forgetting to whisper.

“Shh.” The bookstore owner pointed to a table in back where two men sat reading. “She doesn't go by a pseudonym, does she?” he said, his voice low.

“A pseudonym?”

“Some writers write under an assumed name. Women writers often choose male names.”

Luke blew out his breath. Aunt Bessie never mentioned—what did the owner call it?—a pseudonym. “She's a . . . friend of mine and she writes dime novels. That's all I know. One of them was banned.”

He wished now he knew more about Kate's writing. Books and literature were out of his realm. After leaving Texas, he had no formal education. Even under Aunt Bessie's patient tutorage, he never much improved his reading skills. Not like Michael, who always had his head in a book. Still, he felt guilty. Maybe if he'd shown more interest in Kate's writing, he'd have a better idea how to find her.

The shopkeeper made a face. “Lots of books have been banned. The Watch and Ward Society hasn't the slightest idea what it's doing. If it was left up to that stuffy group, the Bible would be banned.” Obviously it was a sore subject with the store owner.

Frustrated, Luke thanked the man and started for the door. He stopped. “Where would a college-educated woman spend her time?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

With open curiosity the proprietor's gaze traveled down the length of him, lingering on his wrinkled trousers and well-worn boots. No doubt the bookstore owner wondered what a man like Luke wanted with a woman clearly out of his realm.

“Libraries, maybe. You might try the circulation library on Washington. There's also one at Cornhill Square and another on Hanover.” He reeled off several more.

“How . . . how many libraries does Boston have?”

“I don't know. Fifty—a hundred. That's counting libraries in insane asylums, hospitals, and prisons. Your friend is probably not in any of those.”

“I don't reckon so.”

The shopkeeper continued, “There's the Athenaeum, of course, but I doubt she's there. It used to charge an annual membership fee of ten dollars, but then it sold shares and now only proprietors can use it. Is your friend a proprietor?”

Luke frowned. “I have no idea.” He didn't even know what a library proprietor was.

“Then there are church libraries, reading rooms, universities. She won't be allowed in the Masonic reading room, but you might try the YWCA library. It's for women only so they probably won't let you in, but you can inquire at the front desk.”

By the time the bookstore owner got through listing every possible literary establishment, Luke's head was spinning. How did people have so much time to read?

He thanked the proprietor for a second time and left. He stood on the sidewalk outside, shivering against the cold, and glanced up and down the busy street. He checked his map and started toward Cornhill Square.

What if by some chance he found her? What then? What could he say that he hadn't already said? How could he convince her to go back to Cactus Patch with him? How could he prove his love for Kate?

Three days later he still hadn't found her. He'd inquired at libraries, reading rooms, and bookstores to no avail. Feeling helpless as a cow in quicksand, he prayed,
God, I can use some help here. How about a little push in the right direction? If that don't do it, feel free to lay me on an anvil and give me a good hammering
.

The proprietor of the last bookstore he'd inquired at directed him to the reading room of a Presbyterian church. Spotting the old brick church on the opposite side of the street, he crossed over, dodging traffic and causing one carriage driver to curse him out. No sooner had he reached the sidewalk than the church sign over the wood-paneled doors caught his eye.

The sign read, “I will never leave you or forsake you.”

He recalled Kate telling him about her pa. He thought back to his own childhood and the confusing months following his parents' deaths. A parent dying wasn't the same as being deserted by one, but to an eleven-year-old it still felt like abandonment, foolish as it seemed. Kate's pa didn't die—he walked out on her. That was a whole lot worse.

“
I will never leave you or forsake you
.”

What was it that his aunt had once said? Something about God giving love a language of its own.

“
I will never leave you or forsake you
.”

A feeling of triumph flooded through him. It was as if an iron bar had been lifted from his shoulders and the very heavens had opened up to smile on him. It was as if the earth itself had stopped spinning. At long last he had his answer. He knew what to do.